Book #42 for 2015
I’ve been dreading writing this review. Not because I didn’t like the book. I mean, obviously. Day is witty and entertaining and fabulous throughout the book, even when she is going to great pains to point out her flaws. But because I’m probably the only person who cried a lot while reading it.
Wacky liberal mom who home-schooled me and fed my obsession with books? Check.
Suzuki violin lessons and encouragement to consider Juilliard? Check.
A brother who introduced me to video games? Check.
An early interest in RPGs, drama, and dance? Check.
A love of Golden Age mystery fiction? Check.
Participation in the early online communities? Check.
An extremely awkward first meeting of my online friends/crushes? Check.
Scoring really well on the SAT at age 15 and being admitted on scholarship to college at age 16? Check.
A college orchestra professor with an outrageous accent? Check.
Crippling social anxiety? Check.
I could keep going for-almost-ever. Other than the fact that I am 9 years — almost to the day — older than Felicia Day, we are — on paper, at least — nearly identical. The key difference being, of course, that she kicked butt at everything, even being totally adorkable when crippled by social anxiety, whereas I…did not. She is Felicia Day, and I am…not. So, instead of inspiring me to leverage my weirdness to craft my own unique successes, this book forced me to grapple with the reality that if I haven’t succeeded at anything by now, I likely never will.